THE CLAW MACHINE

At a birthday party at Fiesta Fun once, I played one of those claw machines. This particular machine stated that with inserting one token, you would get an "unlimited" number of attempts to grab a prize. So I pushed the machine to its limits. I couldn't grab a prize. After somewhere around 15 attempts, the machine stopped letting me try. I always thought that was funny. Apparently, I was just so bad that the machine gave up on me.

Henry H. Pottermore, Vol. II

THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY H. POTTERMORE AS HE IS CURRENTLY AN INMATE AT THE HOGDEATH CORRECTIONAL DUNGEON

It had been nearly five years since that fateful day, when Henry H. Pottermore smote Horrocks against the wall insomuch that he died, and was committed to prison for his crimes against humanity.

Five years in Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon had changed Henry. He was no longer the lovable, quirky, innocent young boy everybody had grown to love. The boy who loved! Yes, that was his title! And all loved him! But five years in this prison, this hellhole, this armpit of humanity, had turned Henry H. Pottermore into a hardened thug.

“POTTERMORE,” yelled the dungeon guard across the cell block. “VISITOR.”

The visitor walked through the dungeon to cell block CC, cell 14, accompanied by the guard. He was dressed in a nice suit and carried a briefcase. His shoes were ridiculously shiny.

Pottermore, as usual, was doing bench presses on a weight bench. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

The guard waved his wand, and the cell door slid open.

Pottermore took no notice, continuing his bench presses. “203… 204… 205…” he grunted.

“Henry H. Pottermore?” said the visitor, entering the cell.

Pottermore, at that point, placed the bar in its… bar… holder, and stood up, facing his visitor. He looked him over. Then he spat on the floor. To this strange visitor, he was unrecognizable from the boy who first entered Hogdeath five years ago on an out of control speeding train that crashed through the front lobby, killing hundreds. He was covered in tats. He donned a wife beater. And his muscles, once weak and childlike, now bulged out all over his body. He was also unrecognizable to him because he had never met Pottermore before. That… was the most likely reason.

The man stuck out his hand. “Newt Gingrich, attorney at law,” he said.

Pottermore looked at Newt’s hand with loathing. He took a huff of his cigarette, then blew smoke into Newt Gingrich’s face. Then he spat on his hand. Then he took another huff of his cigarette. Then he spit smoke on his hand. Newt Gingrich retracted his hand in horror.

“The guys here call me SpitSmoke,” Pottermore said gruffly.

“I see,” said Gingrich, wiping off his hand with a tissue. “Well, I’m here to help you Mr. Pottermore.”

“I don’t need any help,” said Pottermore.

“Hear me out,” said Gingrich. “I’m here because you’ve got no one to turn to. You’re rotting in here like a pack of rotting death rot, and I say, no more rotten things! With my help, I can give you a chance to make parole. Get you back out in society, where you can prove you’ve rehabilitated.”

“Rehabilitated?” asked Pottermore sardonically. He sneered. “Rehabilitated… I’ll show you rehabilitated.” He shoved his right arm in Gingrich’s face, pointing to his bulging bicep muscle. There was a tattoo that depicted a grisly scene of a prisoner in front of a parole board, firing the killing curse at each one of the board members, who stared at him with stunned looks on their faces as the curses tore through their heads and exploded their brains.

“Wow,” said Gingrich. “Okay. Well, we’re gonna have to get you a sleeve or something.”

Then they shook hands in a fierce powerful shake.

Later that day, Chuck McChucklin came to visit Henry, as he faithfully did once a week. They were required to visit at the glass partition.

“Well well well,” said McChucklin into the phone. “If it isn’t Mr. Henry H. Pottermore. The boy who lived… in prison.”

Henry threw the phone down and punched the glass. A small crack appeared. He punched it again and again. Two guards were on him in seconds tasering him to the floor. McChucklin just laughed riotously. This kind of thing happened every week.

Newt Gingrich returned the following morning. Henry, shirtless and wearing jeans, was doing pull ups as Gingrich arrived at the cell. The guard waved his wand, and the cell door opened.

“Mr. Pottermore,” said Gingrich, stepping in. “You’re not gonna get outta here if you keep breaking the partition glass.”

“What do you know about glass, huh? 162… 163… 164…” he grunted. “Nothin!” Then he let go and stood upright on the floor.

“Enough to know that you’ve got an anger problem,” said Gingrich. “You’re gonna need to cool it for awhile. These kinds of things don’t look good.”

Pottermore grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Listen,” said Gingrich. “I’m trying to help you, I am. But with you out of control like this, I’ve got an arm tied behind my back. No more visits from McChucklin for awhile, you got that?”

Pottermore stared at Gingrich, open mouthed.

“But…” stammered Henry. “He’s my friend!”

“I know,” said Gingrich. “Just for awhile, okay?”

Henry turned his back on Gingrich and stared up at his Napalm Death poster, the only thing that gave him comfort in these difficult times. Gingrich left, and the cell door closed behind him. “Oh Napalm Death,” Henry said to himself. “What would you guys do in this situation?”

They did not answer him.

Not yet.

Two weeks later, Henry H. Pottermore was seated in front of the Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon Parole Board. He wore a bright orange jumpsuit, with long sleeves for his arms. Newt Gingrich was seated next to him.

“We don’t really know how these things work,” said Tweezy McDumbleman, a gentle-mannered gentleman, seated behind a long table with five other people. “But we hope you’ll bear with us Mr. Pottermore.” The other board members laughed. Henry didn’t even crack a grin.

“Now Mr. Pottermore,” continued Tweezy. “No one has ever been let out on parole before for murder in the first degree. Frankly, it’s silly to fathom the thought, hmm?” And he looked around at his fellow board members, who nodded and mumbled in agreement.

“But here’s what we can do,” said Tweezy. “We can grant you a temporary release, on one condition… you can’t murder anybody ever again. Got it?”

“Isn’t that parole?” asked a confused Newt Gingrich, who had a very good understanding of how these things worked, being himself informed of the law.

“Yes and no,” replied Boris Faddenhorms, the man seated next to Tweezy McDumbleman. “Or… wait, maybe yes. I’m not entirely sure.”

“It’s a deal!” cried Newt Gingrich, and he slapped Pottermore on the back, good-naturedly, like all good things do in nature. McDumbleman stamped something authoritatively on a document in front of him.

“Now,” continued McDumbleman. “Some housekeeping is in order.”

Gingrich sat back down.

“First of all, meet your parole officer, Mr. Pottermore.”

A man stepped out of a door on the side of the room. Everything about him screamed “pure evil,” from the lack of a nose on his pale face to his dead sunken eyes to a wicked and cruel smile that spread across his face as his eyes met Henry H. Pottermore’s.

“This is Officer Hans Voldemortmanstein, one of our finest and most decorated,” said McDumbleman, motioning towards Hans Voldemortmanstein in case no one knew who he was referring to.

“Hello Henry!” said Voldemortmanstein.

Pottermore couldn’t believe what was happening. His own nemesis, the Dark Lord, the Prince of Evil, the world’s most powerful dark wizard… his parole officer?

“Whoa whoa, hold on,” said Gingrich. “This deal is off! Everyone knows Hans Voldemortmanstein has had it out for my client since The Incident of 1995.”

Memories burst forth into Henry H. Pottermore’s mind. Terrible tragic memories of that time, long ago…

“Oh pish posh!” said Voldemortmanstein, chuckling. “Let bygones be bygones and begones by begones, I’ve always said!”

“Voldemortmanstein, like I said, is a valued member of the police force in this community,” said McDumbleman. “You’ll be required to check in with him… every day!”

Henry H. Pottermore stood up and looked Hans Voldemortmanstein right in his cold dead eyes. Voldemortmanstein smiled and licked his lips with his snake tongue.

“How much you bench?” asked Pottermore, flexing his pectoralis major muscles.

“Oh I don’t know,” said Voldemortmanstein in his charming  manner. “It’s not important really. My, you really have changed since you’ve been in prison, Pottermore.”

“I’ve learned a few things,” said Pottermore. “Like, ten different ways to work my lats.”

Fury flashed in Voldemortmanstein’s eyes and he reached for his wand.

“All right, all right, break it up,” said Newt Gingrich, stepping between them. “Let’s just calm down guys.”

But Henry H. Pottermore had hit Voldemortmanstein where it really hurt. You see, Hans Voldemortmanstein had been born with a congenital condition where he had really weak lats. In fact, the Incident of 1995 referred to a bodybuilding competition between Pottermore and Voldemortmanstein that ended in Voldemortmanstein, in a very humiliating fashion, fatally injuring himself when he attempted to to do a 1000-pound Reverse Grip Lat Pulldown. His body destroyed, Voldemortmanstein was thought to be gone forever. But as these things always go, his evil Extreme Powerlifting Cult of Voldemortmanstein had found a way to bring him back to life, which is a pretty long and actually uninteresting story. From there, he got a job at Burger King to make a few bucks. Then he worked at a lumber supply store. Then he decided to get into the police force, and eventually, realized that Parole Officering was his calling, because he just loved being in charge of throwing little twerps back into the slammer where they belonged.

His wand was up in Newt Gingrich’s face, and then he unleashed one of his most horrific spells: the one where killer bees spew forth out of his wand. Unfortunately, he messed something up in the incantation, and only regular honey bees came out of his wand. A couple stung Gingrich in the face, but mostly they just flew around looking for beautiful flowers. Another embarrassing moment for Hans Voldemortmanstein, and he had really peeved off Newt Gingrich in the process, the last guy he wanted to peeve off. In fact, Voldemortmanstein had a list of five people he did not want to peeve off, with Gingrich being the last one on the list. He took the list out of his pocket, and put an “X” next to Gingrich’s name, indicating a failure to not peeve him off. Pottermore scoffed. “Pathetic,” he said, and he lit up a cigarette.

“I’ll say,” said Gingrich, rubbing his bee stings.

And thus it came to pass that Henry H. Pottermore was released from Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon on parole, with Hans Voldemortmanstein suspended for one month without pay for his honeybee outburst. His replacement, Officer Frank Crachowski, was even more of a jerk. Henry H. Pottermore never thought anyone could be a bigger jerk than the Dark Lord Hans Voldemortmanstein, but Officer Crachowski won it by a long shot. Fortunately, he was not The Dark Lord, so his jerkishness was limited to yelling, insults, and beating you with his truncheon, which Pottermore would take any day of the week over getting blasted with a Cruciatus curse or, worse, a Wingardium Leviosa curse.

Upon his release, Henry ran into his old friends Ron Schadenfreude and Hortense, who were five years older but looking better than ever! They were impressed with Henry’s various tats, and he regaled them with stories of dungeon life, like the day he had a dungeon-yard fight with Big Joe and just wiped the floor with him. Or the day he had a dungeon-yard fight with Eddie “The Demon” Lascarelli and just wiped the floor with him. Or how he ran into his old nemesis Hans Voldemortmanstein at his parole hearing and just wiped the floor with him.

“So basically, you just wiped the floor with everybody,” said Ron.

“What did I just say, huh?” asked Henry, getting defensive. “You see this?” He pointed to his abs. “You see this?” He pointed to his lats. “You see this?” He pointed to his fist, where he had a spiked ring with a skull on it.

“Yeah yeah, I see it,” said Ron. “Well, good to have you back old buddy.”

“Yeah whatever,” replied Henry. Then Ron and Hortense started making out right in front of him, so… apparently they’re dating now? Henry immediately dropped to the ground and started doing some one-armed push ups to win his ex-girlfriend back, but it was in vain, as she wasn’t even looking. The only thing she was looking at was the inside of Ron’s fungus-shrouded mouth.

Just then, Chuck McChucklin strode onto the scene.

“Well well well,” he said, with that signature sneer. “If it isn’t Henry H. Pottermore… been getting out of Hogdeath Correctional Dungeon on parole again?”

“Yes,” replied Pottermore.

“Good,” replied McChucklin, nodding his approval. And he left.

Just then, Headmaster Donny Trump also strode onto the scene, wielding the House Cup. “Come children!” he called to all within the sound of his voice. The many wizardy folk of Hogdeath gathered around him, like suckling wizard piglets gathered at the feet of their Father Wizard Pig.

“It is time to announce the winner of the House Cup!” he called. And all the children cheered.

“First of all, let me express how grateful I am to each of you, for all your hard work this year. For the good times that have been had. For watching out for each other and keeping each other safe from the clutches of the Dark Lord Hans Voldemortmanstein. You all so much deserve to wield this cup.”

Hortense and Ron looked at Henry and smiled. They knew. Henry smiled back, smiled for the first time in over five years. He knew.

“But the winner,” he continued. “The winner of the House Cup is… NEWT GINGRICH!”

And Newt Gingrich came out of nowhere, waving, nodding, shaking a few hands, and mumbling many thanks as he approached Headmaster Donny Trump.

“Thank you Newt, for your bravery, your courage, your lawyer skills, and for showing us all the true meaning of love,” said Headmaster Donny Trump, handing over the cup and shaking Newt’s hand in a fierce handshake. “Give it up for Newt, children,” said Headmaster Donny Trump, applauding. Then Newt went back out the way he came, shaking hands, waving, and mumbling many thanks. He was never seen again.

“Weird,” said Ron Schadenfreude when it was all over. “Who was that guy?”

“I’ve never seen him before. Have you, Henry?” asked Hortense.

Henry tried to suppress a smile. Oh boy, what a story he had for them!

THE END

Henry H. Pottermore, Vol I

THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY H. POTTERMORE AS HE ATTENDS SCHOOL AT HOGDEATH SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

or

HENRY H. POTTERMORE AND THE MYSTERY OF THE MURDERED P.E. PROFESSOR

    Henry H. Pottermore... the boy who loved! And all loved him! At last, he was on his way to school. But this was no ordinary school. Oh no. This was Hogdeath School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! The most famous school in town! For you see, Henry H. Pottermore was a wizard of sorts. How did he become a wizard, you ask? Well, it's a very long story. And a very boring one too. So that's all that will be said about it. But it came to pass in the year 199999 AD that Henry H. Pottermore, beloved of all who loved, was aboard a high speed train, headed straight for Hogdeath. Headed straight for the front door. This train was not stopping. And it was going like, 300 miles an hour. The children aboard the train screamed.

     Henry H. Pottermore, one of those very children, screamed as loud as he could. He shattered the window of his compartment with his bare hand and screamed out the window. "HEEEEELP!!!" he cried, as blood dripped from his now severed hand. It was chaos. The train bore down on Hogdeath, now only a few miles off. "HEEEEELP!" he cried again, but it was in vain, for the only creatures to hear his cries were a few sheep, grazing amidst the fields of gold.

     "Wait Henry," said his hot witch girlfriend Hortense. "Didn't you used to be a high-speed train operator?"

     Suddenly, Henry H. Pottermore remembered his training.

     "Henry, you can stop this train!" Hortense said, staring deep into his cold dead eyes. "You can stop it!"

     Henry's friend Rob Schadenfreude nodded in agreement. "Only you can stop it Henry!"

     Henry H. Pottermore took courage at this. He had a job to do. One that would save lives.

     Just then, the train slammed into Hogdeath, crashing through the lobby, with the screeching metal and the screaming children and the exploding everything and killer debris flying everywhere.

     "What a mess," said Headmaster Donny Trump as the train eventually came to a rest in a giant pile of twisted metal wreckage. There would be few survivors, he guessed, and he would be right.

     "5000 POINTS FROM SNUGGLEBUM!" cried Headmistress Madonna, in her typical scolding manner. Fortunately, Henry H. Pottermore, Rob Schadenfreude, and Hortense all survived with just third degree burns and post-traumatic stress disorder. "Aw, come on Headmistress!" whined Rob.

     "Enough Mr. Schadenfreude!" she said. "I don't know who re-arranged the train tracks to lead right into Hogdeath, but I've been here long enough to know the pranks of the Schadenfreude boys! And detention for all of you!" And she walked off in her snooty headmistressy manner.

     "I hate her," said Henry H. Pottermore. "I'm gonna kill her."

     "Henry H. Pottermore!" said Hortense. "You want us to lose the house cup?"

     "I'm going to wingardium leviosa her head and put it in the house cup."

     "Yeah!" cheered Rob, and he high-fived Henry.

      Just then, Henry's arch-nemesis Chuck McChucklin walked on the scene, with his two bodyguards, Agents Snow and Laughlin. No, they were actual bodyguards. No one knew why he had bodyguards. They were dressed in fine suits and wore sunglasses. They also had guns.

    "Well well well, if it isn't Mr. Henry H. Pottermore," he said, with that typical evil sneer in which evil kids sneer at things. "Been crashing high-speed bullet trains through the Hogdeath lobby again, I see?

     "Shut up McChucklin," said Rob.

     "Well well well," said McChucklin, turning toward Rob. "If it isn't Mr. Rob Schadenfreude. Been... being an... idiot lately?"

     "Shut up McChucklin," said Hortense.

     "Well well well," said McChucklin. "If it isn't Mrs. Hortense... what's your last name?"

     "We get it McChucklin," said Henry. "It is us. It's all of us."

     Just then, Rob lunged for McChucklin, the bloodlust in his eyes. "I'LL KILL YOU JERK!" he cried, and threw a punch to McChucklin's face, before Agents Snow and Laughlin managed to pull him off and hit him with a stun gun.

    "700 POINTS FROM CHUCKLEFLUB!" shouted Headmistress Madonna, striding back onto the scene. Henry H. Pottermore was pretty sure there was no such house, but he held his tongue.

     "I have never, in all my days, beheld such tomfoolery!" she cried. "You are all hereby banned from playing Squimmitch! Forever! A total kickban on Squimmitch!"

     Henry H. Pottermore felt his stomach drop. "No," he said, in total disbelief. "No, you can't do that. No way. Not Squimmitch."

     "Don't make it worse Pottermore," said McChucklin, sneering. "You were always the worst at Squimmitch anyway." He really was. Pottermore was only in his second year at Hogdeath and had already been labeled the worst Squimmitch player ever to Squimmitch a Squimmitch ball. Would you like to understand how Squimmitch works?

Squimmitch: A sport that is popular with the children at Hogdeath. The premise is, you have a bunch of kids on riding lawnmowers in a room with a big ceiling fan. One person on each team holds up a tall stick with a basket on top. Players on each team attempt to toss the "Squimmitch" ball (similar to a golf ball) into the ceiling fan and have the fan knock the ball into that team's basket. A couple players on each team are given spiked baseball bats and are allowed to beat the players on the opposite team. The game ends when a team has scored 100 points from knocking the ball into the basket, or when one team has been beaten to death by the other team.

Pottermore's job was to hold up the basket. A daunting task for sure, because, by George Custer, you never knew where that Squimmitch ball was gonna fly when it hit the fan. Usually the Squimmitch ball just hit him in the face. He would then hold the basket in front of his face, hoping this would alleviate the problem, but then the ball would just fly down and smack him in the crotch. They called it a "crotch-smacker" and the opposing team would get 50 points.

    

     That night, after the wreckage had been cleared and the bodies of the dead wingardium leviosa’d into a mass grave, the children retired to their beds. Pottermore had a dream that night. A dream of love. A dream of passion. A dream of murder, betrayal, and deceit. A dream of fire and fury the likes of which the world had never known. A dream where Hortense was there and he was about to kiss her, but then she like, turned into his mom for some reason, and then he was in this elevator that was going up and down over and over again, and then Chuck McChucklin was there, and he like, brought him dinner in the elevator but it was really hard to eat because of all the constant up/down motions, and McChucklin was like, “I’ve got to get me one of these elevators,” and Pottermore was like, “Get outta my elevator!” And then all of a sudden, the elevator door opened, and there stood his dear Uncle Bob, saying to him,”What have I told you about eating your supper on this elevator?” And Pottermore begged for forgiveness, and Uncle Bob gave it to him because he was a great uncle. And then suddenly, he was in the Squimmitch room zooming around on his John Deere 5000 mower, with one hand wielding his basket stick and the other hand steering the wheel. Then without warning, the basket caught on the fan, and then his arm was ripped from its socket, and the fan flung it across the room, and all the children laughed at him, including McChucklin, who, as the name implies, enjoys a good chuckle at the expense of others, especially Pottermore, and then suddenly, he was...

     “AAAAHHHH!” screamed Pottermore as he sat up in the bed, wiping sweat from his brow. What a nightmare. He had had this dream several times, but he was still unsure of what to make of it. But it confirmed to him what he had really feared all along. That he really was the worst at Squimmitch.

     Classes began bright and early the next day! The children awoke to a fine breakfast of puddings! Just puddings, as far as the eye could see! White pudding, black pudding, yellow pudding, blood pudding, green pudding, pudding with bacon in it, pudding with more pudding in it, pudding inside bowls, pudding inside glasses, pudding all over the floor, pudding floating around in the air, pudding pudding pudding! Henry H. Pottermore gazed upon the scene with the utmost delight! How magical! How wonderful! Henry spotted his friend Larry, a very fat child, across the room, screaming as pudding poured out his nose and ears. How wondrous!

     Suddenly, Chuck McChucklin approached, Agents Snow and Laughlin in tow.

     “Well well well,” he started, the usual sneering routine. “If it isn’t Mr. Henry H. Pottermore. At it again, I see?”

     “At what again?” asked Henry.

     “You know. Just… standing there. Looking around at things. Looking at pudding. You always were a pudding looker, Pottermore.”

     That last statement was the last straw for Rob Schadenfreude.

    “I’LL KILL YOU YOU PIECE OF GARBAGE!” he yelled, and lunged for McChucklin’s throat, but Agents Snow and Laughlin restrained him. McChucklin laughed.

    “See you in class, losers,” he said, and wandered off.

    “He just tries to egg you on, Rob,” said Hortense, caressing him very seductively. “You can’t let him get to you like that.”

    “He just… he just makes me so mad,” said Rob.

    Once they had had their fill of pudding, they walked to their first class, which was called PE, or Physical Education. Yes, just like PE classes of old! What, you think these gifted children should be deprived of the magical experience of PE? Well I never!

     The professor, a very pale cold man named Horrocks, was the worst teacher Henry had ever had at Hogdeath. He was, in the words of Rob Schadenfreude, “the biggest jerk that ever jerked.”

     “Hello children,” he muttered after they were all seated. “Welcome to Physical Education. To become a powerful wizard and battle the forces of pure evil, it is imperative that you keep yourself in tip-top shape. Unlike Larry over here, who is just so fat.” He pointed at Larry, Henry’s fat friend, who began to cry. “What’s wrong Larry?” Horrocks asked. “Too much pudding this morning?” Many of the children laughed. They were terrible terrible people. And this school taught them to be that way.

     “Leave him alone!” yelled Henry from the back of the class.

     “Well well well,” said Horrocks, slowly advancing towards Henry. “Henry H. Pottermore. The boy who loved. Loved what, Pottermore? His mommy?” The children giggled.

     “Uh yes, I do love her, is there something wrong with that?” he asked, confused.

     “Oh, little Pottermore loves his mommy! Little mommy’s boy Pottermore!” Horrocks cooed.

     “AVADA KEDAVRA!” yelled Henry, raising his wand, and shot Horrocks with the killing curse, right in the groin. Horrocks flew backwards and slammed into a wall. Then his body hit the floor, unmoving. And… he was dead? Yeah. Wow. Did Henry just… wow.

     The other children stared at Henry in stunned silence.

     “You… you just murdered him,” said Hortense. “You just murdered a professor.”

     “Well,” Henry said. “I didn’t think that would really work. I don’t know how…”

     “Henry,” said Rob. “That was… insane. I mean, look at him. He’s dead.”

     Sure enough, Horrocks lay on the floor, dead as a dead person.

    Just seconds later, Headmistress Madonna burst into the room. “What has happened here?” she yelled. “Why is Professor Horrocks dead on the floor? Pottermore? Is this your doing?”

    He slunk low in his seat, then, with his hand over his mouth, subtly pointed his finger at Rob.

    “ONE THOUSAND POINTS FROM SNUGGLEBUM!” she cried. “Both of you come with me!” And she grabbed Rob and Henry by the scruffs of their necks and hauled them out.

    “Explain yourselves!” she said, once they were in the hall.

     “Well,” said Rob. “Henry just murdered him.”

     “It was an accident!” cried Henry.

     “No accident,” said Rob. “He performed the killing curse.”

     “I didn’t know it would do that!”

     “Do what? Kill?” said Rob, rolling his eyes.

     “Enough of this!” she said. “Pottermore, how did you even learn the killing curse? Only dark wizards fiddle around with powerful magic like that!”

     “Well,” he said. “Pretty easy. I just found it on the internets.”

     “And pray, Henry H. Pottermore, what did the internets tell you?” she asked.

     “The internets said, raise your wand and say AVADA KEDAVRA. It’s not like it’s hard or anything. Just raise your wand and say crap.”

      “Don’t forget the little flick of the wand,” said Rob.

      “Yeah, the wand flick or whatever,” said Henry.

      Headmistress Madonna nodded. “Hmmm. Well I guess that’s true,” she said. “But you’re going to be getting some pretty severe detention for this, Pottermore. In fact, murdering a professor is usually grounds for life in detention.”

      “Life in detention…? Gee whiz,” said Henry.

      “Unfortunately, we can’t have police involved with this or there’d be a full-on investigation into all the other terrible things that happen here. And then no more Hogdeath. And why deprive the world’s gifted wizards and witches of an experience at Hogdeath?”

      “Makes sense,” said Rob. “Right Henry?”

      “Yeah, I guess,” he said, and he looked pretty dejected at having to spend life in detention. But he really did deserve it. He just murdered a professor.

     “Well then, come with me Pottermore,” said Headmistress Madonna. “Back to class with you, Schadenfreude. Tut tut!” And she slapped the handcuffs on Pottermore.

      Suddenly, there was McChucklin. Just out of the blue. How did he do that?

      “Well well well,” said McChucklin. “If it isn’t Mr. Henry H. Pottermore. Been murdering professors again, I see? Well, you’ll have a good time in detention. I’ll even come visit you once in awhile.”

      “That’d be nice,” said Pottermore. “I actually would really appreciate that.”

      “No problem,” said McChucklin. “You see, I’m really not a bad guy.”

      “I know,” said Pottermore. “Everyone thinks you’re my arch-nemesis, but you’re actually really friendly.” And they did a little bro hug.

And thus Henry H. Pottermore was led into the dungeons to live out the rest of his life in detention.

THE END